


The Meaning of the Sea

by the_oscar_cat



Category: Doctor Who RPF, Sherlock (TV) RPF
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Domestic, M/M, Third Star - Freeform, frankenstein at the national
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-02-04 18:56:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1789630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_oscar_cat/pseuds/the_oscar_cat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Will you help me eat the bread? said the little red hen. Yes! Said the rat, the cat and the dog...”</p>
<p>“Well you can fuck off!” came a yell from the kitchen. </p>
<p>Ben chuckles and leans back in the chair far enough to just see Arthur poking at the beans heating up in the pan. “Cheap seats!”</p>
<p>“Yes dear?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Meaning of the Sea

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic I worked on, off and on, in 2011 and 2012. It meant a lot to me, even though I never managed to finish it, but I realised recently that I'm never going to go back and work on it, and I'm in a different fandom now etc etc. but I wanted to put it up here, half done as it is, because there are bits of it that i still like, and i'm glad i wrote as much as I did, given everything else that was going on for me at the time (blah blah blah.)

February 2011

Arthur has everything he needs. A journey he knows intimately, an unopened bottle of water on the folded down tray table next to him, his comfortable headphones (with the third set of replacement wires), and a handful or two (figuratively speaking) of his favourite albums. A book he's been promising himself for the last week of shooting, and scripts that he's already half learnt in the bottom of the rucksack by his feet. At some point there will be a sandwich - but probably not till he gets into London, something grabbed between the platform and the swipe of his Oyster card.

Two hours to kill. He flicks open his phone, idly scrolls through a handful of texts, looks out the window. There is a warming thrum of something winding it's way around his belly. He is going home. It always to feel like this. He settles back in his seat, stretches his legs as much as First Great Western will allow him and closes his eyes.

Later...

It's worth the extra effort to walk the length of the tube platform – the end carriage is almost empty. Arthur can sling his bag on the seat next to it, and rummage through it for his scarf, readying himself for the walk over the bridge, across the Thames. Cardiff was frigid but London's not much better this time of year. He taps his foot against his ankle along to the tune in his head, and catches sight of himself in the window opposite. Two day old beard, layers of brushed cotton and thin wool that are much loved and, well... old and now travel rumpled. A beany pulled close around his face. He looks wholly like himself, and nothing like Rory. 

The tube stops and he slings on his rucksack and winds the scarf around his neck as he leaves the carriage, tucking the ends into his jacket, and pulling up the zip as he bounds up the escalator on the right hand side, passed all the standing commuters. He presses his pass to the large round detector on the exit gates and walks out into the London night. 

The sky is pink from the light pollution, and the air is crisp. The street lights are lit, and across the river the London Eye towers over the buildings, a bright, lit up bike wheel, the pods glowing faintly blue. There are tons of people out, people playing music, people taking photos of each other, and Arthur adds himself to the stream of people moving south over the bridge, weaves between the groups and tries not to slam into the backs of tourists when the suddenly stop in front of him to look at the graveyard of broken skateboards that litter the base of one of the bridge pillars. 

On the other side the trees are lit by tiny lights, white and blue, and couples walk among them. Arthur heads for the promenade, past the restaurants and bookshop below festival hall, past the skateboarders at the under-croft, and round the side of the National. Sally's manning the door, and they chat a bit about how fucking cold it is, about how it's going to snow again next week, or so they say.

In side the theatre is warm, and all theatres feel a bit like home to be honest. The strip lighting and concrete corridors, the worn edges of sets and the dust and tang of sweat. It's temping just to hang out in a forgotten corner somewhere, but there is half an hour of the production still go to, and his best bet is to curl up in the dressing room for a bit and not push his luck by settling somewhere where he could be spotted too early. It's not about the surprise, as much as not wanting to break the concentration, the space needed to enhabit a character. About letting everyone get on with their job while there is still a job to do.

A couple of turns and he's there, sat on a battered sofa, reading his novel and smiling at the muffled sound of applause, of stomping feet. The warmth in his belly roll over and double back on itself. It can't help but make his nerves thrum, lit up by the excited pent up energy in the space above him, the suspended final moments before the cast leave the stage for the final time, before the audience return to thoughts of coats and bags, drinks at the bar, and journeys home. 

It's noisy in the corridor now - the chatter as everyone scrambles back to their own tiny carved out spaces, to change, to scrub their faces, already pink from a job well done yet again. There is a conversation going on outside the door, and Arthur closes his book around his finger to hold the page while he waits for the door to open, and a familiar tall figure comes through backwards, still talking, still gesturing, his jacket over his arm, his shirt and rolled up trousers sticking to his skin, heat coming off him in waves. The back of his head is banded by a giant scar, puffy at the edges where the bald cap meets real skin. 

It's been three weeks, and Arthur's already grinning, a wave of affection breaking over him.

He gives a small cough, and Ben - bless him - jumps a tiny bit, turns on a heel his eyes wide.

"Oh now, that's just sneaky!" he says, gesturing to Arthur with his coat, and then slinging it onto a nearby chair. "What the hell are you doing here?" 

His smile is huge, and Arthur drops the book on his bag and gets to his feet.

"I've been good. All my homework is done." his eyes flick to roughly where his script is, deep in his bag. "Well as good as. So... I thought I'd come sleep in my own bed for a change."

Ben looks a fright but he's still Ben. He smells like Ben, like a long run in the park, and underneath the familiar undercurrent of stage make-up, under the fake bruising, the scary looking prosthetics with their knotted stitch strings like tiny bed-heads, his eyes are warm and knackered. Arthur steps closer and Ben leans in and that first kiss, that returning kiss is slow and warm and comfortable. Arthur pulls back and puts the palm of his hand on Benedict's chest. His shirt is clammy and cooling, his heart is hammering.

"Make-up, shower. De-Creature yourself."

 

“Right. Yes.” Ben nods, unbuttoning his shirt as he heads out the door. "Don't go anywhere!" he says as the door smoothly and silently shuts behind him. 

He's back half an hour later, damp at the edges and rubbing at his hair with a small, worn towel. His bike trousers are ragged at the cuffs and donkey's years old. His feet are still bare and now flushed pink from hot water. 

“I distinctly remember you saying you weren't able to get back for a couple more weeks.” Ben is sifting through a pile of papers on the table in front of him, picking up stray items and stuffing them into a small holdall. He's smirking. It's always been a good look on him.

Arthur pulls a face “Oh, I'm a big lying liar, and you know me and surprises.” He puts his coat back on and shoulders his backpack. 

“They shifting some of the filming about, and a load of my scenes got bumped to the start of next week. A London worthy block of time, and the train station was right there!” He scratches his chin, enjoying the scritch scritch.

Ben smiles and grabs his jacket, pulls the ends of his scarf through the loop. “It's very lovely to see you.” he says quietly, and steals another kiss before opening the door, tilts his head, letting Arthur out first. 

“Are you going to do the door with me?” Ben asks as they walk back through the theatre to the exit. “Johnny's already gone I think.”

Arthur considers it for a moment, but really? Lord no. “Nah, go, smile, refuse the photographs, and I'll see you by the bike.”

He takes the keys swinging from Ben's fingers, and takes Ben's bag while he's at it, shouldering it over his own, loaded up like a skinny pack horse, and turns towards one of the other exits. He hunches his shoulders and fists his hands in his pockets against the cold, as he walks to the stretch of bikes that is Benedict's usual parking haunt. At the other end of the alley there is a gaggle of people at the stage door, laughing and a bit giddy, and Arthur can see Ben hunched over, trying to sign programmes against his thigh. People are trying for respectful from what he can tell, but there is a general crackle in the air of 'omg he's Sherlock fucking Holmes' that wasn't there back when he was 'that horrible bloke in Atonement' or 'Stephen fucking Hawkings' (although that brought with it it's own brand of fan.) Arthur has had to adapt to 'omg that Dr Who guy' in the last twelve months or so, so it's something he's familiar with in his own way.

He turns to the bikes and Ben's is easy to pick out of the line up. He unlocks the top box and loads it up with both bags, then sets about unlocking the helmets. By the time he's done, Benedict's alongside, adding a bottle of wine to the box, and taking his helmet from Arthur's hands. His breath huffs out like smoke it's so cold.

“Ok?” asks Arthur.

“Hmmm. Tired. Home.” Ben straddles the bike and heaves it back off it's stand. 

Arthur nods “Right-ho,” and climbs on behind him, an arm wrapped around Ben's waist, pushing his visor down with his other hand. The engine growls into life and they make their way out of the mouth of the alleyway and into London's evening traffic. 

Twenty minutes later - “Have I told you I love bikes?” asks Arthur – they are both stood on their doorstep, rummaging in pockets for house keys. Ben wins, which is to be expected - out of the two of them he knew he was going to need them when he got up this morning. Arthur's are... somewhere. In his bag he thinks. Hopefully not in his other jeans, or worse – on the bedside table back in Cardiff. 

Regardless, they get the door open and Arthur heads into the house, flicking on lights as he goes, the hallway, the kitchen, and landing at the top of the stairs. The bags get dumped next to the fridge, and he's flicking through the pile of mail on the kitchen counter when Ben crowds up behind him, wrapping his arms around Arthur's middle and hooking his chin over Arthur's shoulder. 

“There is nothing interesting there.” he says, pressing his nose against the hair behind Arthur's ear.

“I know. It's a compulsion. I can't help myself.” Bill, bill, (they're all paid by Direct Debit anyway, why do they insist on sending paper copies?), bumph, pizza flier.

Benedict chuckles. Fatigue means that his weight is slowly pressing down on Arthur's shoulders, but that's okay, nice even. 

It feels good to be home.

Arthur pushes back gently, and turns in his arms to they're face to face and in the next moment they're kissing – slowly, intimately, heat slowly building. It's exactly where Arthur wanted to be, and now he is.

Ben tongue is warm, and confident, and familiar, tiny licks again his bottom lip, hands against the pockets of his jeans, pulling him in tight. After a little while they pause, forehead to forehead, and Arthur pushes back off the kitchen counter.

“So Bath? Bed? Both?” he asks, just taking his fill, enjoying looking at Ben's face in the kitchen's light.

“You're one giant bruise aren't you? Come on, get your kit off, let's have a look at you.”

Ben laughs, though there's a wince in there somewhere. “I'm crumbling at the edges, it's true.”

“Right then. Hold that thought.” Arthur let's his arms drop. He turns and opens a cupboard, pulls out two pint glasses and fills them with water from the tap. He passes one to Ben then heads out of the room, up the stairs. He turns on the bath taps in the bathroom, filling the room with noise, gulps half the water, and leaves the glass on the sink. He goes into the bedroom, shrugging off his coat, pulling off his jumper and flannel shirt in one go, stripping his tee-shirt over his head by the time Benedict makes it to the bedroom door.

“You're a sight for sore eyes, you know that?” Ben says, leaning his shoulder against the door frame. 

“I was serious about you getting your kit off you know.” Arthur unbuttons his jeans but leaves them loose on his hips. “I've come all this way and I want to see all your war wounds.”

He walks forwards and pushes the jacket from Ben's shoulders, unwraps his scarf, and their hands fumble when Benedict tries to unzip his hoodie. His clothes flump in a pile on the floor, kicked to the side and out of the way. His tee shirt is actually one of Arthur's, pale blue, and stretched at the collar. 

(“Oi!”

“What?”)

Underneath there are bruises on his forearms, his wrists slightly swollen. There are more at the ridges of his hips, though the extent of them is only evident when Ben steps out of his trousers. His knees are rough, and there are faint marks on his shins where the prosthetics have been repeatedly applied and removed. 

It worse then it was a few weeks ago, but only by a series of increments – each week a little more wear, each performance probably that little harder.

Arthur rubs his thumb gently over the bruise at Ben's hips then passes him to turn off the taps at the bath. He pushes at his own jeans, peels off his underwear and climbs into the water. He sighs at the warmth, and jerks his thumb at Ben, who has trailed after him.

“You. In.”

Ben settles against Arthur's body, his back to Arthur's front, his knees breaking the surface of the water, his arms resting on the sides of the bath. He gives a heartfelt groan that rattles through his chest, through Arthur's chest, and rests his head against Arthur's shoulder. 

“God I needed this.”

Arthur stroke Ben's hair back off his forehead and watches him closes his eyes. The steam rises and fogs the mirror. Outside there is traffic, and drizzle flings itself against the window in the dark. Inside there is just the in out of breathing, and wet skin to idly run his fingers over, a comfortable silence between them.

They stay in the water till it cools, and Ben is half asleep. It's a toss up between topping it up with more hot water, but that never really works. The warmth ends up all patchy – burning feet and chilly shoulders, and when you mix it up it's not really much warmer than it was before. So no. Not worth the faff. Instead Arthur nudges at Ben's shoulder and when he sits up a bit, gets out from behind him. He scrubs at himself with a old worn towel from the rail, warmed by the radiator. He can feel Ben watching him even when is back his turned so he just carries right on carrying on, brushes his teeth, and then grabs a second towel when Ben pulls himself to his feet, pulling the bath plug out on his way up. 

He looks almost exposed – water dripping from his slight frame, the hard physical work needed for the production has sculpting his body even more than usual. His eyes are hooded, exhaustion bloody obvious, but he's also hard, his cock thick against his thigh.

Arthur holds the towel out to Ben, who rubs at himself briefly, still stood in the bath, the water puddled at his feet. 

“I have a tiny bit of energy left.” he says, hooking the towel over the side of the bath, and stepping out. “I'm all yours until I fall asleep.”

“Right then.” Arthur agrees, stepping close, his hands cupping Ben's face. 

This time when they kiss, there is hunger there, the push and pull of desire, and Arthur walks them, still kissing, the few steps from the bathroom to the bedroom. Ben sits on the edge of the bed, then falls back to lie against the soft cotton sheet, the rumpled duvet, and Arthur follows, crouches over him, hands either side of Ben's head, his knees bracketing Ben's hips. He can feel Ben's cock again his rump and rocks back against it instinctively, kisses where Ben's neck meets his shoulder. One of Ben's hands is in his hair, the other moves into the space between their bodies, tugging easily on Arthur's cock, a simple back and forth. 

“I'd like to fuck you.” Arthur whispers against Ben's ear. “You want that?”

He can feel the muscles in Ben's face shift as he grins, feels the sting as Ben nips at his earlobe. “Yes please.” His voice is sleepy and blurred at the edges. It rumbles between them.

Arthur does all the work – leans over, gets the lube from the drawer of the bedside table and shifts down Ben's body, gnawing gently at the flesh under his belly button while he fumbles a bit getting the cap undone. Ben just sinks into the mattress, loose limbed and relaxed. He's curls a knee over Arthur's shoulder, offering himself, so that Arthur can get his fingers into him, gently and methodically, with no further effort on his part. His body is a grasping thing though, tight and hot, and his cock bumps Arthur in the face as he gets more lube on his fingers, pressing in again with two, twisting them, and Arthur captures of the head of it between his lips, gives it a long, steady suck. His own cock jumps a little at the noises Ben makes in return.

Arthur runs his hand up Ben's cock as he eases his cock that first slide into his body, a steady tug _up and up_ , his other hand wrapped tightly around Ben's hip for leverage. Ben just groans more, his gasps directed towards the ceiling, his legs locked around Arthur's waist, his arse high on...his feet against his back arched, his fingers grasping at the bed's bottom sheet as he gets closer and closer to the edge. 

Ben is asleep a couple of minutes after he's come, which is not a surprise. Arthur untangles himself from stray limbs, and the bedding, goes for a piss and pads about downstairs for a bit. Sex always leaves him feeling wide awake straight afterwards, and he thinks about getting his book. Instead he drinks another glass of water, refills the cat's water bowl, turns off the lights and then heads back upstairs to curl back up next to Ben's sleeping form. He tucks his nose into the hair at the back of Ben's neck, and just enjoys the familiar smell till sleep drags him down.

 

“There is no food in our fridge!”

 

September 2010

 

One afternoon, Ben said “Do you want to get married?” The ink was dry on half a dozen projects for the coming year and both their diaries were already full of Biro scribblings and smudged with crossings out. 

“You mean, hypothetically? One day?” Arthur was sitting cross legged in the patch of afternoon sun that was starting to fade the lower half the rug. Script pages were in his lap but he wasn't really reading them. He tipped his head back to look up at Ben, curled in the arm chair.

“Not really.” said Ben, but he didn't sound as confident as he had the minute before. 

“I don't know.” He didn't.

He turned back and looked out the window, or rather he watched the dust catch in the winter sunlight. 

“I'm not going anywhere.” he said eventually, turning back to look at Ben again, gently smiling at what was really a very earnest looking face. “I mean. I don't want to be anywhere else.”

“I don't want to be anywhere else either.” Ben picked at the hole in his sock and them caught himself and pushed his hands through his hair instead. 

In Arthur's memory, one of them got up and made some lunch for them both. He can't remember which of them it was, or what they ate. But the conversation ended there. 

Except it didn't really end, Arthur couldn't help but turned it over and over in his brain, wearing away the edges till the memory was smooth and shiny. 

Ben signed up for three more films, (only one of them an indie, only one of them in the UK,) on top of the next three Sherlocks, and Arthur signed his summer over to the lovely people at the Globe. One Sunday evening they attacked their diaries with highlighters, colour coding time together and time apart. It was a bit miserable to be honest, little islands of time at home. It wasn't the work – the work was fun, and amazing and everything he had always wanted. And though it was hard to separate his bias of what he thought about Benedict the actor, rather than Ben, who spoiled the cat, and stole his clothes when he ran out, and who kept failing to quit smoking, he knew that watching him – on stage, or on film made his heart leap into his throat, made the hair at the back of his neck stand on end. He felt... pathetically in love to be honest. 

Impressed and proud and wanting and wanting and wanting.

Which was when he realised that, smoothed out or not, he'd got it all wrong.

 

“Oh Darvill, you guys are so _married_!” Karen laughs.

Arthur can feel the colour rise in his cheeks, and looks away and then back. 

“Oh Lord.” she stops playing with her drink. “Seriously? But... _why_?”

“Why what?”

“Why get married? You don't have to.” She looks weirded out, which is usually funny, and would probably still be funny if they were talking about anything else.

“Well... no. He's not knocked me up or anything.” Arthur goes for incredulous. It's a good look for him. 

“Don't bullshit me Darvill.” Karen looks up at him expectantly.

“You're really asking?”

“Yes I'm really asking! Benedict...” She draws his name out dramatically, and Arthur knows she just likes doing that, it's not that she doesn't like him, hell she has stolen him for her unbeatable Pictionary team. “...is really great but, well marriage! Just because you can doesn't mean you have to.”

“Yes. But just because you don't have to, doesn't mean you shouldn't.”

“I don't think that made sense.”

“Yes it did, Karen.”

“Ok.” She twirls on her stool, and when she gets all the way round, slaps her hands on the counter top. “So let me get this straight – you loooove, him. You've been together for-ever.”

“Five years.” Arthur supplies.

“Jesus!” She takes a fortifying sip of her drink. “And now you want to make a gigantic public commitment in front of everyone?”

Arthur pulls a face. “Not... really.”

“Huh? But... a wedding! Cars and hats and discos, hell you married me already! You know how this goes.”

“Well yes, but that was for work. And... wasn't real.”

She waves a hand. “Whatever.”

“Anyway, it's not about a wedding, I'm pretty sure that's not what's going to happen, though I don't think Wanda knows yet so who knows? It's...” and oh lord he realises he's going to actually say it. “about a marriage.”

“The difference being?”

“Well hopefully it's going to last more than a day. Like a lot longer. As for the rest, I'm not sure. I'll tell you when I've worked it out.”

“You're mental.” she sing-songs at him. 

 

(It's about saying out loud that you want to stay with someone, forever. That you believe you can do the work. That you want to do the work – even when they're driving you mental – because what you have together is worth everything. Is more than everything else.)

 

 

 

“Will you help me eat the bread? said the little red hen. Yes! Said the rat, the cat and the dog...”

“Well you can fuck off!” came a yell from the kitchen. 

Ben chuckles and leans back in the chair far enough to just see Arthur poking at the beans heating up in the pan. “Cheap seats!”

“Yes dear?” 

–--

Ben is there when he comes off stage, wet from the rain and still humming. He's playing some game on his phone, but tucks it back into his pocket when Arthur comes over, already undoing the too many buttons up the front of his costume. 

–--

He borrows his sister's 2CV to drive to the Welsh coast.

(“I don't really understand why, between you at least, you and Ben can't afford to run a car.”

“--- We live in London? What would be the point, pray?”

“Well apparently so that you can drive dad's old camping stove to the other side of the country.”

“Very occasionally. Like once. This time. Look, can I borrow the keys or not?”

“Yeah, yeah. Have fun. Don't get sheep poo in the car! I'm serious.”)

It takes most of the afternoon, in part because of a few wrong turns, Arthur pulling over to squint at googlemaps on his phone. He's bumping along the farm track that leads to the location by sunset, led in the end by the beacon of a bonfire someone has started on the beach, a thick plume of smoke rising high in the sky. He parks the car by a couple of hired transit vans, fifty yards or so from a small circle of tents ranging from tiny two man ones, up to a monsterous dome with four pod arms coming off it, it's front flap open, and light spilling out from a lamp hung where the bendy poles meet in the middle.

“You made it!” 

Adam and Ben are slouched out on deckchairs in front of a flowery 70's frame tent, but Ben leaps to his feet as soon Arthur swings himself out of the car, presses close for a brief, warm kiss, his fingers curling into a squeeze against Arthur's shoulder. Then he's opening one of the back door and hauling out the sleeping bag, rucksack and a small, slightly squished cool bag.

“I can't believe you actually brought bacon!”

Arthur smile. “I said I would bring bacon. I promised your long, miserable, hungry face that I would bring bacon.”

“Well that settles it.” Ben says, pushing the door closed with his foot, his arms full of luggage and preserved pig. “I am definitely keeping you.”

Arthur laughs and rubs at his eyes. Driving is an endurance sport it seems, and one that he's out of practice in. “I brought wine too. Red wine.”

“Thank God!” Ben calls as he weaves around guy ropes, throwing the sleeping bag into a dark, small tent on the outer edge of the huddle. 

Someone has set a large barbecue up, high on the beach, and before long the smell of sausages and burgers, chicken kebabs and steaks wafts up to the camp. Arthur adds the camping stove to the cause and soon Ben is biting into a bacon sandwich with such a look of joy on his face that it's amazing the ribbing and mocking doesn't start instantly. He has a steel mug on the sand between his legs, half full of the wine that Arthur brought – it's nothing special or expensive, just mellow and easy to drink. Half a bottle is already gone in fact. The bonfire is big enough to light and heat the group of forty or so that are there, crew and cast, a decent of sprinkling of partners, boyfriends and girlfriends, husbands and wives. Arthur finishes his burger and bun and rests his weight back on his hands. Someone has got a sound system going, and Vampire Weekend bounces around the small darkening bay. 

Ben reaches forwards to top up his mug, and settles back closer to Arthur's side. In the half light of the evening it's easy to see how gaunt he looks – again – the smudge of make-up by his ear, the curl of his hair at the nape of this neck, dark brown this time, which makes his skin look sallow. And somehow it doesn't much matter than it's for a part, Arthur's subconscious wants to bring Benedict home, and feed him up with eggs and large cups of tea. Buy him treats from the supermarket and turn off all the phones and alarms and shut the curtains tight so that they can just sleep and sleep and sleep.

“You ok?” Ben's voice is gravelly, the way it gets after a shoot when he's pushed things a bit to hard for too long.

“Me? I'm fine.” 

The sea is pushing it's way up the beach, not close enough to disrupt things, but definitely setting a timer on the night. Arthur settles deeper into his jumper, and takes a swig from the outstretched mug. “Did you have fun then?” he asks after a pause.

“Yes.” Ben says simply. He twists away for a moment and comes back with a yellow 70's blanket which he drapes over both their shoulders, and tucks his head against Arthur's shoulder. “Turns out beaches are a good place to think. Beaches and fictional terminal illness – I feel like I spent all my time working and thinking.” He pauses and looks out over the bonfire. “Thanks for the playlists by the way. Turns out a ton of Sufjan Stevens really gets you in the mood to contemplate death and the beauty of nature and all that.”

Arthur rests his lips against Ben temple. Not so much a kiss as a press. “I had a feeling it might.” 

And with that it starts to rain.

It's a mad scramble to get everything important under cover. Arthur helps Adam and some of the crew get the last of the lighting rigs into one of the transits at the edge of the camp. Ben finds him coiling cables of all things, twisting them as they go so that they don't get taffled, his hands stuffed into his armpits for warm. 

“Come on.” he says, and picks his way between the tent to the small two man one where he stowed Arthur's bag earlier. “Hang on.” he says, and pulls out a handful of long tent pegs, and pushing them into the soil. “For our trainers.” he explains, and throws himself, finally into the tent and out of the drizzle. 

Arthur sits on the groundsheet and pulls off his shoes. Ben takes them and, with a little flourish to show what he means, hangs them from the pegs so that the rain cleans the mud of the soles and the insides stay dry.

“Nice.” replies Arthur, and then he's busy pulling his sleeping bag from it's bag. It seems to grow as it comes out, frothing nylon across the tent, only to get batted out of the way as Ben pulls his own shoes off and finally, finally gets out of the rain. 

“Hello.” Ben says, as he rolls on the sleeping bag, pulling Arthur down with him.  
They lie curled together listening to camp around them. Someone is singing who really shouldn't, but hey they sound like they're enjoying themselves at least. Ben's fingers creep under the edge of Arthur's jumper, tug at his t-shirt until they get to skin. His fingers are cold, and Arthur can feel the distinct path each finger takes back and forth across his belly.

“I have been thinking about sucking your cock for the last four days.” he confides, his voice quiet in the little canvas bubble they're in. 

“When you haven't been thinking about death and the beauty of nature?” Arthur is slightly breathless despite himself.

“A man's got to have a hobby.” replies Ben as he undoes the buttons down Arthur's fly, as he shuffles down Arthur's body, pressing a kiss into the dip that would be his belly, if he had one. 

“Oh don't think for a moment I'm complaining.” Arthur lifts his head and watches Ben huff out a laugh in reply, his fingers already pulling Arthur's cock from his suddenly confining boxers, watches him give the head a slow, loving, open mouthed kiss. Ben turns his head and kisses the fragile skin at Arthur's wrist as he reaches down and slides his fingers in Ben's hair where it curls about his ears, and in the next moment the pad of his tongue is slowly licking up and down the glans, his lips sucking around the head, taking Arthur apart, 

piece. by. piece.

Arthur hisses, Fuck! and Christ! And Oh God, Ben, fuck! And he's trying very hard to be quiet, given there's basically three layers of fabric between them and the rest of the camp, but Ben knows not only all his buttons, but when and in what order to press them, and the one good thing about being apart is gorging yourself on love when you get back. Ben makes him feel like he's... well to be honest like his that bacon sandwich Ben wolfed down earlier, chasing the taste of it around his mouth, pressing his fingers into the grease and sucking them clean. The same energy is there, in the clutch of Ben's fingers against his hip, in the stroke of his thumb as he spreads the pearls of precum around the head, the way his... fuck!... his fingers tighten along his shaft, the twist of his wrist at each change of direction.

Arthur doesn't pull at his hair, though it's a temptation. His feet scramble on the slippery sleeping bag fabric.

Ben snuffles against his shoulder, and mumbles “I miss you when you're not here, you know?”

Arthur beams. “I know, Ben. I know.”

 

 

“I'm devoted. I mean, I want to be devoted. To you. I want to keep working. And I want you to keep working. But I don't want to keep going away and coming back. I mean... balls. I know I will be going away and coming back but... look, The Hobbit. I want to go, I really want to go, but I want you to come with me. I just don't want to just head off for two months or whatever any more. What? Is any of this making any sense at all?” 

–

Ben is in fucking LA of all places when the second series of Sherlock airs. Sue and Steven run an open house for the three weeks it's shown, and Arthur find himself there watching The Reichenbach Fall with Ben on skype which is frankly very strange indeed. But he didn't want to miss anything, and it turns out, he re-arranges his day so that he can sit in front of his computer and watch Steven and Sue's giant tv along with everyone else. Arthur finds his eyes drifting towards Ben, regardless of how gripping the episode is. But he's just there, his shoulders and head framed by a popup window in firefox, his chin propped up by his hands, and he claps and cheers along with everyone else when Ian comes on screen.


End file.
